Page 20 of Sold to the Bratva
Her lips twitch, but only slightly. “I know I’ve been difficult,” she says, eyes fixed on her hands. “But you have to understand. From a young age I was told my wedding would secure an alliance for the Bratva. I never knew with whom or when, and part of me hoped that once I grew up my father would change his mind.”
I nod once, but say nothing.
“I wanted to marry for love,” she continues. “I searched for it, hoping that if I met the right man I could convince my father to scrap his ridiculous plan. I don’t say this to hurt you, but marrying you feels like burying every dream I’ve ever had.”
Her voice cracks on that last word, and the tightness in my chest eases. She’s not just angry, she’s a young woman whose future was stolen. Katya isn’t merely defiant, she’s just grieving the life she wanted, the person she still hoped to become.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk. “I don’t blame you for wanting to marry for love, Katya,” I tell her honestly.
Her eyes widen slightly at that. “You don’t?”
“Of course not.” I shrug. “This isn’t exactly how I expected it to be either.”
“But you have a choice,” she interjects. “You could call the whole thing off.”
“Wouldn’t your father simply wait to marry you off to someone else?” I ask.
She frowns, as though the thought has never occurred to her.
“Maybe,” she concedes. “But I’d have more time. I could search for another way out, or find someone I actually love before then.”
“Or,” I propose, “you might end up with a horrible oaf of a man who treats you even more like an object than your father and Oleg do.”
This stops her short, and I take her silence as an opportunity.
“Katya, I like your fire,” I say, voice low. “Your passion, your bravery. If you give me the chance, I think I can make you happy. I can’t promise you’ll fall in love with me, but I can promise I’ll treat you the way you deserve.”
She blinks fast, and for a heartbeat I see a tear slip down her cheek before she reins herself back in.
“What if we start from the beginning?” I offer. “Tell me something about yourself.”
Katya hesitates, then nods once. “All right,” she says softly. “What do you want to know?”
A delicate note threads her voice now. It’s not surrender, exactly, but the defiance is gone. We’re finally getting somewhere.
I lean back in my chair. “What’s your favorite color?”
She laughs. “Really? That’s what you want to know?”
I grin. “Humor me.”
She leans back too, her smile finally genuine. “Emerald green. It reminds me of that brief moment in early spring when the snow is gone and the trees burst back to life, just before the flowers return and steal the spotlight.”
My brows rise. “That’s very specific.”
She shrugs. “I like those fleeting moments. They make you pay attention because it might be a long time before you experience them again, if you ever do.”
That’s remarkably insightful for someone so young. Her mother died when she was little so I wonder if that loss shaped this perspective. She knows what it’s like for good things to slip through her fingers.
“Tell me something else,” I say. “What’s the one thing you always want people to know about you when they meet you?”
She tilts her head. “I paint,” she answers proudly.
“You do?” I’m surprised and impressed.
“Obsessively.” She laughs. “In another life I hoped to open my own studio, showcase my pieces, and support other local artists.”
“And what’s stopping you from doing that?” I wonder aloud.
